


Round One

by oisugasuga



Series: The Knockout Series [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blow Jobs, Diners, French Fries, Gangs, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation in Bathroom, Milkshakes, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Praise, Preppy Oikawa, Public Blow Jobs, Public Hand Jobs, Smut, Street fighting, Suga is badass, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-11 03:53:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12926814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oisugasuga/pseuds/oisugasuga
Summary: The first time Sugawara Koushi was decked in the face, he was seventeen and evergreen.





	Round One

**Author's Note:**

> *cries tears of relief*
> 
> Finished my piece for the Haikyuu!! Big Bang 2017 in time (somehow)... huge thanks to Cici and Lou, my wonderful beta and wonderful artist for being amazing and for all of their help in making my vague idea for a street-fighting OiSuga AU come to life ♥(ˆ⌣ˆԅ)
> 
> Please, please, go check out the absolutely gorgeous art done by [@hijackedbylou](http://hijackedbylou.tumblr.com/post/168225465622/this-is-my-piece-for-this-years-hqbb-i-was), it's beautiful

The first time Sugawara Koushi was decked in the face, he was seventeen and evergreen.

 

It was a clean blow, a swift shift forward onto the tips of dirty, scuffed-up sneakers, and then exploding pain that threw Suga’s entire world into bright, bright colors.

 

Electric green smoke that hovered around the bathroom stalls, chalk rose dusting the grimy, tiled floor, and the most amazing shade of gold that dripped from the sink faucets, the ceiling overhead.

 

It was bloody.

 

It was thrilling.

 

And, above all, it was utterly and completely addictive.

 

Daichi likes to joke, although his tone is always dry and borderline disapproving, that that one knock to the head had shaken something loose in Suga’s brain, that one fight defending a kid being shoved down a toilet during the lunch break had launched an entire lifetime of broken noses and scraped knees and talking around a mouthful of bloody gauze clenched between teeth.

 

That wasn’t completely true.

 

It was just that, after that one punch, Suga had _felt_ something, deep down in his chest, settled in next to his heart.

 

This itch, this urge, this tiny sliver of glass that poked and prodded at him to stand opposite an opponent with nothing but his bare fists and some tape wrapped around his knuckles.

 

A drive to fight.

 

A yearning to bruise and be bruised in return.

 

A need to win.

 

…

 

The knuckles that meet the curve of the right side of his stomach are sharp, bony, punch against soft skin wrapped around wiry muscle and burst blood vessels.

 

Suga’s breath catches in his throat in the most satisfying way, the wind knocked from his lungs, pain blossoming over his bones and aching its way over his ribs.

 

The grin that tilts his lips up as his breath huffs out between his teeth feels twisted, pushed up on one side by elation and screwed down on the other with an irritation that’s been building by the second.

 

_"Too slow,"_ his brain tells him, quiet, concise, measured; the way it always is when he’s in the ring. _"Too much of a gap there, too much of an opportunity. Move."_

 

Suga’s sneakers squeak over the dirty ground, shifting to compensate for the hole in his defense he had caught a half-second too late.

 

His ribs ache and throb with each new breath; the promise of a future smattering of bruises there, smudged violet before they’ll fade into sickly yellow and green.

 

Suga measures his opponent again as they circle, a brief reprieve from the first threeminutes of sweaty, muggy scrapping.

 

It’s a skill he’s picked up over the months, gauging strengths and weaknesses throughout the entire fight, eyes flickering over arms and legs and fists and the placement of sneakers against the ground, looking for an opening.

 

The boy standing a few feet away is a little broader than Suga in the shoulders, has an impressive set of biceps and a few inches over Suga’s head, and he _looks_ strong, dark eyebrows furrowing in the middle of his forehead with concentration.

 

In fact, everything about him is intimidating except for his hands.

 

The fingers now curled loosely into fists - knuckles sharp under the delicate layer of skin pulled over them - are long, elegant, pianist fingers that end in neat, oval-shaped nails and look soft despite the pale smattering of silver scars over the backs of the boy’s hands.

 

They look gentle, as if they would be more suited feathering softly through someone else’s hair or stirring cream into coffee or sketching a drawing in broad sweeps of charcoal.

 

The pull in Suga’s side and the faint taste of blood that still lingers on the backs of his teeth from an earlier swift uppercut say otherwise.

 

Sweat drips down the back of his neck, plasters the back of his t-shirt to his skin. It’s just hot enough as the sun creeps below the horizon in a blush of peach to be uncomfortable.

 

It’s frustrating.

 

This boy doesn’t have any noticeable gaps in his defense. 

 

Sometimes the weaknesses blare in neon bright colors, a flashing sign above the other person’s head that screams at Suga to notice it.

 

Sometimes it’s more subtle, a cheshire grin in the dark that just barely glints through the gloom.

 

But tonight, there’s nothing but obvious skill and blood trickling out of the corner of Suga’s mouth to prove it.

 

No sloppy footwork. No pulled punches. No elbows out, no soft spots exposed.

 

Suga keeps circling, keeps watching and waiting, drowns out the noises of the crowd around them with a fair amount of ease: the jeers and the yells and the cat-calling.

 

The parking lot they’re all crowded in is abandoned, overgrown with weeds growing up between cracks in the concrete in shows of defiance, and lit by grimy streetlights - a few of them busted or knocked out, probably by kids with rocks and nothing better to do.

 

Piles of broken glass dots the ground in places in puddles of black, shattered mirrors that catch the dying light of the day and flash rose pink, muted plum.

 

Suga wonders if he could fall through one, wonders what he would find on the other side.

 

"You’ve got a little something there."

 

Suga’s eyes snap towards the voice, his consciousness berating him for losing attention, even if it was only for half a second.

 

The boy- what had his name been again?

 

Hiroki?

 

Haru? 

 

Hajime.

 

That had been it, the three syllables that had slipped from his lips at the beginning of the match when they had shaken hands.

 

_Hajime_ is smirking, a small curl to his lips, his eyes dark and focused solely on Suga.

 

He’s pointing to his own mouth, to the corner of his lips on the same side that Suga can feel the smudge of blood slowly drying, crusting over against his skin where his lower lip is split and swollen, courtesy of Hajime’s knuckles.

 

Funny.

 

Suga hadn’t pegged this one to be a talker.

 

"Then we must be matching," Suga smirks, gesturing to the side of his face and eyeing the four angry red lines that decorate the skin next to Hajime’s right eye, blood dried along the shallow cuts.

 

Weapons weren’t allowed in the street fighting Suga participated in, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t scratch.

 

Hajime grins a little at that, and it’s almost genuine.

 

"Touché," he answers, the two of them still circling each other with careful, small steps.

 

Hajime’s shirt sticks to his chest with sweat and he pulls it away a little, two fingers pinched at the collar, eyes raking up and down Suga’s face before he speaks next.

 

"I almost feel bad messing up that pretty face of yours."

 

Suga scoffs, lips twitching with a grin.

 

It hurts, the pull stretching his busted lower lip uncomfortably, but Suga doesn’t let the smile drop.

 

Bantering is just as much a tactic as a right hook swing is, a chance to catch your breath, to re-evaluate your opponent, to get under their skin if the chance arose.

 

Besides, Hajime isn’t nearly as boring as Suga had expected him to be.

 

It’s an extra bonus to the thrill of the fight, a lick of neon lilac.

 

There’s something that snaps and crackles there under that stoic face and prep school shirt that’s come untucked from Hajime’s waistline, the bottom of the crisp white button up curled with creases, wrinkled and messy.

 

The nice, meticulously ironed blazer that Hajime had shucked off before the fight had been emblazoned on the chest pocket with a very familiar logo, a crest of a five-pointed crown.

 

Speaking of which…

 

"I bet you see a lot of pretty faces at school," Suga muses, his skin sticky with humidity. He can feel the tips of his bangs curling up with sweat, around his ears and against his forehead. "As pretty as daddy’s money can afford anyway."

 

Seeing a student from Aoba Johsai, standing with his feet planted and his hands stuffed in his pockets once the crowd had bled back and dispersed to form a circle at the beginning of the match, had been startling for Suga to say the least.

 

Aoba Johsai, with its pale jade and blinding ivory school colors, with its looming, black-iron fence and sprawling, plush emerald lawns and beautiful cherry blossom tree gardens, with its parking lot full of shiny sports cars and its marbled halls filled with the clack of high heels and the rustle of crisp, thousand-dollar suit jackets, with its strawberry-lipped girls and its pretty-faced new money transfers and its dark-eyed boys, with its state-of-the-art programs and its thriving sports teams and its never-ending web of dangerous lies and whispered secrets and old money. 

 

Suga had never witnessed a school so fit to star in a modern-day, gossip girl-esque drama.

 

And he had definitely never witnessed an Aoba Johsai student standing in the middle of a ring for a street fight.

 

Standing in the crowds that encircled the small space, however?

 

Yes, all the time.

 

Street fights meant betting, and bets meant money.

 

Who else had spare change just lying around to spend on the thrill of making a choice and hoping it pulled through, bloody knuckles and all?

 

Hajime smirks, the angle and shape of it breaking Suga from his thoughts once more.

 

Lips open to retort, but they’re interrupted in the middle of their exchangeby an impatient bystander.

 

"Get on with the fight!"

 

Suga rolls his eyes.

 

There was no respect sometimes.

 

As it is, both he and Hajime shut their mouths, swallowing down barb-tipped words and saccharine-laced sentences.

 

Suga digs his fingernails into his palms, and lets his mind fully return to focusing on finding a weakness - an opening, something he can use to win.

 

His eyes flicker over Hajime’s shoulders, down to his arms and wrists, further down to his legs, the amount of bend in his knees,and the position of his feet.

 

And yet again, Hajime is closed off, sealed and shuttered.

 

Suga hums inwardly to himself, mind moving quickly and methodically.

 

There’s a time limit to these fights, unlike others Suga’s watched, where the punches keep flying until someone drops.

 

Some people complain that having a time limit leaves the option for there to be a tie, a compromise of sorts, and not the dramatic, violent knockout everyone yearns to see.

 

But Suga thinks it only adds more pressure, only squeezes everything in closer - the sky, the ground, the people - until there’s only room to think about your next move, your next blow, your next breath.

 

It adds pressure and it makes everything that much more _intense_.

 

_"Two minutes left on the clock."_

 

The voice of the girl hosting this particular street fight, Ai, is sharp, jagged, and matches the narrowing of her eyes and the razor-pointed curl of blood-red lips. Her eyelashes feather over her cheeks as she surveys the two still circling each other.

 

She’s holding a bag full of bets and entrance fees, and her fingers clutched tight around the drawstring.

 

A tie means Suga gets paid less.

 

A tie means Ai will be less likely to host him next time, her attention drawn instead to Hajime, the boy who beat one of her regulars.

 

But more importantly, a tie means Suga doesn’t get to taste that honey-sweet brush of victory, that tingle of electricity up his spine and the colors surrounding him so much brighter than before.

 

Two minutes.

 

He has two minutes to win.

 

The thought has barely crossed his mind when Hajime moves first.

 

Suga is thrown off by the barest fraction of an inch. He hadn’t been expecting the other boy to come in straight with one fist driving back down to Suga’s bruised ribs and the other swinging in a neat hook towards the line of his jaw.

 

And the falter is just enough for Hajime to make contact with his jaw even as Suga blocks the hit aimed for his ribs. The blow sends Suga’s head snapping to the side, his teeth closing down over his tongue, sharp pain and then the copper taste of blood blooming in his mouth.

 

The crowd cheers.

 

Suga’s ears are ringing.

 

Hajime’s smirk is watery, wavering in his swimming vision when Suga straightens back up. He stumbles a little over the cracked parking lot ground, fireworks snapping and exploding in his head.

 

_"Aoba Johsai,"_ Suga thinks with a scoff, blinking rapidly to clear some of the spots from in front of his eyes. _"There’s no way in hell I’m losing a four-minute street fight to someone from Aoba Johsai."_

 

He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth roughly.

 

It comes away bloody, a crimson streak smudged over pale skin.

 

Suga spits to the side, feels his teeth gingerly with his tongue.

 

Nothing seems loose or missing.

 

He raises his fists again, tries to clear the lingering static in his ears.

 

Hajime is getting ready to strike again, Suga can see that much even through the slight daze.

 

More circling, more feints forward, but Suga can tell he’s waiting for the perfect moment to pull the winning blow.

 

It’s there in the angle of his smile, flickers in his dark eyes and is written across the knuckles curled into fists.

 

Money exchanges between hands on the sidelines, all eyes on the two of them, the weight of feral grins, like wolves waiting in the dark, pressing on the back of Suga’s neck.

 

Suga bites the inside of his cheek, lets the noises and the pain and the taste of blood in his mouth all fade away, lets it drown in saltwater waves and disappear through shattered glass windows.

 

_"Focus,"_ his brain tells him.

 

_"You’ve already lost,"_ Hajime’s grin says.

 

"Like hell," Suga mutters under his breath.

 

His thoughts are rapid-fire, running through moves, running through strategies and past fights in seconds.

 

He doesn’t have time to make a mediocre move, doesn’t have time to use an attack that will only weaken Hajime.

 

_"One minute left."_

 

The megaphone distorts Ai’s voice.

 

The crowd is deafening.

 

A murder of crows bursts from the foliage across the parking lot, a flurry of ink-black wings and sharp talons.

 

Hajime’s right foot shifts forward, the barest slide, the tiniest movement - an alarm bell in Suga’s head.

 

_"Here it comes,"_ his mind warns.

 

_"What are you going to do?"_ Hajime’s eyes say.

 

_"Breathe,"_ Suga tells himself, the first trace of nerves hitting him, the first scrap of uncertainty settling cold and damp over his skin.

 

Hajime makes his move. His checkmate.

 

Suga braces, mind still furiously working to find a way out, time bursting in snapshots, in slow motion so that he can see the arc of Hajime’s right fist swinging towards him in a cloud of sapphire smoke, with gold sparks blistering from his knuckles. 

 

Hajime’s confident. There’s sureness in every line of his body as he matches Suga’s evasion method, sneakers scraping over concrete as his fist flies in a straight - a classic power shot, one that Suga won't be able to recover from.

 

Closer and closer and closer, and Suga is faltering, is losing his grip on that gossamer curtain of success, as light and thin and fragile as a butterfly’s wing, slipping through his fingers like silk.

 

_"I hope my nose doesn’t break,"_ is the only solid thought in his head.

 

Closer, closer, a brush of wind feathering over his face.

 

And then Suga sees him, standing in the crowd just over Hajime’s right shoulder, as familiar as the feel of air entering and leaving Suga’s lungs.

 

There’s the flash of a smile - the barest second where their gazes meet - a frozen moment in the hot summer heat.

 

Ice-cold clarity washes over Suga’s head.

 

Suddenly he sees it.

 

The tiniest gap, the most infinitesimal screwup, one that Suga sees in gold-edged cerise, hovering just near Hajime’s left elbow.

 

It’s down, relaxed by the barest inch, his left fist idle as his right one careens towards Suga’s nose.

 

It’s a mistake, a tiny one made in the surge of perceived sudden victory, the sharp, citrus taste of his opponent’s looming defeat, but it’s enough. Just barely enough, but enough.

 

_"Now,"_ Suga’s mind tells him. _"Move."_

 

Suga jerks his head to the side just as Hajime’s fist gets impossibly close, just barely avoiding the straight and instead feeling the rough graze of Hajime’s knuckles over his left cheek, a sucker punch of air fluttering Suga’s bangs back.

 

_"Dodge, cinch in, drive up, hard and fast, no hesitation,"_ his brain tells him, the words cool and calm in his head.

 

Nothing else exists right now except for that rose-blush smoke of an opening.

 

The world is completely silent.

 

Up and down and pain and victory are all the same.

 

Time is an illusion, but it still bleeds by, the seconds dripping from Suga’s fingertips in blooms of violet that explode against the ground when they hit.

 

It’s simple really, what Suga does next.

 

But it’s unexpected, and that makes all the difference.

 

Time snaps back into focus, a jerk in the air.

 

It’s one step forward, knuckles of his right hand curled into a tight fist, his fingernails digging into the soft flesh of his palm like knives.

 

It’s swinging that fist up, up, up, launching it towards the sky with all the force of a rocket.

 

It’s bypassing Hajime’s left arm, the one that could’ve blocked this particular blow if Hajime hadn’t been so sure of winning, if he hadn’t let his elbow drop just that fraction of space.

 

It’s making contact, Suga’s knuckles colliding with the hard line of Hajime’s jaw in a devastating uppercut, the other boy’s head snapping back, with the sound of bone against skin loud in the dawning cool night air.

 

The crowd is deafeningly silent when the static in Suga’s ears dies down.

 

His knuckles throb, and Hajime is bleeding when he glances up from the ground where Suga knocked him on his ass. The sky has just turned from a startling shade of pink to a deep plum, the light finally nearly gone, throwing long shadows, when noise erupts into the air.

 

The crowd is deafening; shouts and screams and someone is shaking his shoulder as people surge forward. Someone else is ruffling his hair, and Ai is grinning at him, her cherry-red lips curved up into something like approval.

 

Suga breaks free of the hands patting him on the back, squeezing his arm. He shoves his way through the crowd to her, waits for the familiar press of a wad of cash into his palm.

 

"As impressive as always," Ai purrs into his ear, leaning forward so her lips brush his cheek and the cloying weight of her perfume encompasses him. Her fingers linger in his, manicured nails scratching light lines over his palm. "But next time, don’t take so long."

 

Suga pulls back, flashes her a grin that’s not quite genuine, and salutes with two fingers to his forehead.

 

"Your order is my command," he quips, throwing in a mock bow, and then turns on his heel, not waiting to see the pretty pout she must be throwing his way - the one that’s just as familiar as it is fake.

 

Suga shoves back through the crowd in the opposite direction, fingers curled tightly around the prize in his hand.

 

There’s a brief swell and break in the mass of people, just enough of a gap for Suga to catch the briefest glance of Hajime being pulled to his feet by another boy whose back is to Suga. Hajime’s jaw sits at what looks like a weird angle, even from here.

 

Suga winces slightly, feels the briefest flash of guilt burn in his stomach for about two seconds until the crowd surges in again, hiding Hajime from view.

 

_"You choose to fight, you deal with the consequences,"_ Suga thinks to himself.

 

They’re not his own words. They’re a recycled copy from a moment in his past, a night he remembers vividly after one of his first fights, one that had ended badly, a broken nose and blackened eye his mementos of the occasion.

 

His sister had said that, as he had kneeled on the floor of a dirty bathroom in a gas station on the side of the road, waiting for her boyfriend to come pick them up and drive them to the hospital.

 

She had been right, of course.

 

Suga finally makes it out of the densest part of the crowd and weaves around the stragglers on the outer edges, accepting compliments and claps on the shoulder until he’s alone, walking quickly across cracked concrete.

 

The last light of the day is gone, leaving behind flickering streetlights and the chirp of bugs in the muggy summer air. 

 

Suga hums to himself as he walks, kicks up gravel and dust, and sets his eyes on the horizon.

 

He’ll be down there, Suga knows, at the bottom of this hill like he always is - waiting for Suga to amble in, bruised and bloody and broken but together at the same time.

 

The farther Suga walks, the dimmer the sounds of the crowd behind him grow, eventually disappearing all together until it’s just the scuff of Suga’s sneakers along the ground and then, a few minutes later, the faint roar of the sea.

 

It builds and builds, crescendoing as Suga goes down, down, down, until he turns a corner and is hit by it all at once.

 

Suga pauses, and then stops in the middle of the small road that winds down to this part of the shore.

 

He clutches the money he’d won in his hand and stares, takes a deep breath and fills his lungs with saltwater and brine.

 

The sea is calm tonight, almost seems to glow under the full moon, its waves slow and placid and lulling.

 

It’s a huge sheet of glass, a cerulean-blue, endless expanse that never fails to make Suga feel small.

 

He sighs, thumbs at the dried blood at the corner of his lip, and keeps walking.

 

Eventually the ground turns softer, looser, blacktop giving way to dark soil and then to pale sand that shifts and slides under Suga’s shoes.

 

He stops again, unlaces his shoes, slips off his socks and stuffs them inside. He ties the shoelaces together and swings it around his neck so his sneakers bounce against his shoulders.

 

And then he’s walking again, toes slipping into sand that’s still warm from the day, his legs burning from the fight and now from the effort of pushing himself forward.

 

The beach is empty, the sand stretching out on both sides until it crashes up against the black, rocky faces of the cliff sides that encircle his small town.

 

It’s a more secluded area, one that is usually unoccupied, even during the day, so Suga isn’t surprised.

 

It’s why he likes to come here instead of to the more populated stretch of shore on the other side of town, the one that most of the people in this tiny town like to swarm to in the heat of summer, like bees to honey, all because the waves there are usually gentler.

 

And also probably because there’s an ice-cream shop and small shopping mall right next door.

 

But this, this right here, with the silence and the encompassing cliffs that circle around this part of the ocean like a crescent moon, and the almost untouched sand and that old, bleached piece of log farther up the shore that Suga has sat on countless times. This is where Suga likes to be.

 

He continues to hum, continues to walk, until water laps at his toes.

 

And then he looks to his right, the way he always has.

 

It’s a pattern almost. Suga fights, Suga wins or loses, Suga walks down to this part of the shore no matter what part of town he was in for the street fight, Suga walks down the shore until he reaches the sea, Suga looks right.

 

And Daichi is there.

 

Suga smiles when he catches sight of the familiar figure a little bit down the shore, waves when Daichi raises a hand in greeting, and then winces at the pull in his busted lip.

 

He shrugs off the pain, turns to meet Daichi halfway, kicking up sand as he walks until he can make out Daichi’s face in the gloom, can see the face he’s known since he was three.

 

"Dai," Suga says once they’re facing each other.

 

"Kou," Daichi smiles.

 

"Guess," Suga demands, like he always does. "In three, two, one-"

 

"Win," Daichi supplies. Like he always does.

 

Suga grins, ignores the pain this time, and waves the hand he’d tucked behind his back a few moments ago in the air, flapping the bills clutched in his fingers. 

 

Daichi laughs then, loud, his smile matching Suga’s and Suga jumps up, lets Daichi wrap strong arms around his waist and spin him around.

 

It’s dizzying and everything blurs. Suga stumbles once his feet finally sink back into soft sand, but Daichi has both hands on his shoulders now, and steadies him easily.

 

"You always guess the same," Suga accuses, whacking Daichi in the side half-heartedly.

 

He’s too high on the rush of winning to be truly annoyed that Daichi never guesses he’s lost, that maybe Suga’s trudging down to the beach with his tail between his legs and his head down.

 

"I always will," Daichi answers simply, dark hair falling into his eyes and a soft smile still on his face.

 

"Ridiculous," Suga scoffs, still beaming. "You’re ridiculous, Sawamura."

 

"And yet you insisted on buying friendship rings," Daichi retorts, his hands slipping from Suga’s shoulders as he steps back, the breeze off the ocean fluttering over the back of Suga’s neck.

 

"Hmmm, I must’ve gotten punched in the head too hard that day," Suga muses, the edge of his mouth curling up into a smirk.

 

"Uh-huh," Daichi answers, and then he’s pulling something from below his shirt collar.

 

It flashes once in the air, the faint tinkling sound of metal against metal filling the quiet, and Daichi ducks, pulling something off over his head.

 

"Speaking of the friendship rings," he says, clutching something in his palm. "I want you to hold onto this for me."

 

He extends his arm out into the air, a delicate silver chain dangling from his fingertips, the shining circle of metal on the end of it swinging lightly in the sea breeze and glinting in the soft moonlight.

 

"Are you returning your friendship ring, Daichi?" Suga teases, voice mock-angry, one slender eyebrow raised.

 

Daichi smirks, swings the chain a little as the wind ruffles the soft hair at the back of his neck.

 

"I want you to keep it for _now_ ," he emphasizes, rolling his eyes. "I can’t keep it on while I teach the summer camp, the kids keep yanking at it whenever it slips from underneath my jersey. And I would keep it at home but you know how much Keiko loves shiny things."

 

"My own little magpie," Suga says fondly, thinks of Daichi’s nine-year old sister with her big brown eyes and that curve of trouble to her mouth that means she’s just waiting to show Suga the latest trinket she’s snatched.

 

"Yeah, yeah, I know you two are in cahoots and that you enable her 'hobby'," Daichi scoffs. "But this is one thing I don’t want her hoarding somewhere in her nest of a room."

 

Suga hums, smiling, and then holds out a hand.

 

"Fine," he says, fingers curling around the cool metal ring that is identical to the one that sits comfortably on the middle finger of his right hand.

 

"Keep it safe," Daichi tells him, his eyes bright.

 

Another strong breeze blows off of the sea, salt-filled and cold for this time of the year.

 

Suga shivers.

 

"Always," he promises.

 

 

 

The dream is always the same.

 

 

 

_Suga is floating._

 

_He rests on his back, his body cradled by gentle, rocking waves, arms and legs suspended in the water, dangling lazily._

 

_The sky is dark above him, an ebony canvas that is blank except for the two moons hovering within its depths._

 

_Two twin moons, side-by-side, burning like white fire, pulling him in closer and closer as he lies there, as he lets the sea carry him wherever it wishes._

 

_Suga isn’t cold, isn’t warm, doesn’t really feel anything past being numb, the tips of his fingers tingling with that odd, gone-to-sleep sensation, pins and needles and a hint of nothingness._

 

_The double moons continue to glow._

 

_They overshadow the stars._

 

_The waves are gentle._

 

_Suga is content to drift._

 

_And when a hand grabs one of his in the water, Suga isn’t the least bit surprised to tilt his head to the right and find Daichi, floating just as peacefully, his large, brown eyes catching all of the light around them and shining._

 

_"Dai," Suga whispers._

 

_Daichi smiles._

 

_And then it fades, the curve to his lips melting away._

 

_"Suga," he says. "You’re bleeding."_

 

_And suddenly Suga feels it, feels the sting against the backs of his hands where they’re submerged in saltwater._

 

_He raises both of them, watches the water drip down his wrists, watches it fall from his fingertips like tears._

 

_He turns his hands over, palms raised up to the sky._

 

_Bloody._

 

_Bruised._

 

_Blooms of violet, streaks of cerise, angry cuts and the tinge of faded yellows and greens, a mottled canvas of destruction._

 

_His knuckles are almost unrecognizable._

 

_And they’re the only thing that remains constant as everything else around Suga changes._

 

_Even as the waves turn crimson and tall, crashing into one another with deafening chaos, throwing Suga around._

 

_Even when Daichi disappears from his side, gone somewhere Suga can’t see as saltwater and brine burn his eyes and grate down the back of his throat, choke him, send him spluttering and thrashing and reaching with bloody fingertips for the sky._

 

_Even when the waves suddenly begin to climb higher and higher, stretching as if they too want to touch the stars, taking Suga with then, coughing, crying, drowning, until he’s right in front of the two moons, held suspended by a blood-soaked ocean._

 

_Until it all comes crashing down in a horrible cacophony of noise, fingernails on a chalkboard, screaming, metal against metal._

 

_Suga falls, broken knuckles lit up by white light, hands stretched above him, as if he can hold onto something._

 

_He falls anyway._

 

 

 

Suga dips the tip of his fry into the mustard smeared over one edge of his plate.

 

His eyes burn.

 

His head aches.

 

The neon lights of the diner are too bright, the chatter of the people crowded into the hot pink booths is too loud.

 

The only thing keeping Suga sane is the plate of fries in front of him and the vanilla shake he has the fingers of his free hand curled around.

 

The maraschino cherry lies discarded on a white napkin near his elbow, bleeding red over the paper.

 

A restless night, a full day of working the two odd jobs he had picked up over the summer, a few hours of training at the school gym afterwards, and Suga might as well be sleeping while sitting upright.

 

The only reason he’s here is because… 

 

"Hey."

 

Daichi’s voice is breathless, winded, as he slides onto the stool next to Suga’s, propping his elbows up onto the linoleum countertop.

 

"You’re late," Suga grumbles.

 

He stabs another fry into his mustard and chews off the end, ignores the dull thud of pain behind his right eye from his headache.

 

The sting of salt against the deep gash in his busted lower lip is uncomfortable, reminds him too much of thundering waves and soft, blood-soaked sand and a bright, bright light that had clawed and ripped at his irises.

 

"Sorry," Daichi breathes, pushing wind-blown hair back from his eyes. "Keiko wouldn’t let me go."

 

"Hmmm," Suga responds, side-eyeing him. "I guess I can forgive you then."

 

The words are normal coming from his mouth, and they should be teasing and light-hearted, but Suga can hear the flatness to his own voice.

 

Daichi is quiet a beat longer, and then asks, "Bad dreams again?"

 

"Bad _dream_ ," Suga corrects, wraps his lips around the straw in his milkshake, takes a sip, and washes down the bad taste in his mouth with sugar and cream.

 

"Right," Daichi agrees, a tanned hand reaching for one of Suga’s grease-soaked fries.

 

Suga smacks his fingers away.

 

"Ow," Daichi hisses, nose scrunching up before a small smile crosses over his face. "It’s just a dream, Kou. Nothing to fret over… although you might want to rethink what late night trash tv you’re watching for it to be the same one over and over."

 

"Yeah," Suga sighs, tapping out an unknown song against the countertop with his nails. "I just didn’t sleep that well afterwards."

 

The smile on Daichi’s face makes way for a tiny frown, his cheek propped up on his palm.

 

"You should’ve told me," he says. "Cancelling on dinner for one Sunday wouldn’t have killed anyone."

 

Suga finally smiles at that, feels the tiniest bit better when he throws the next fry into his mouth.

 

"You sure?" he asks Daichi, licking a drop of mustard from his finger. "The last time I ditched, you sulked for at least a week."

 

Daichi rolls his eyes.

 

"That’s because you forgot to tell me you weren’t coming and I waited here for two hours," he reminds Suga, long fingers finally darting out and stealing some of Suga’s food successfully.

 

"Details," Suga says breezily before poking Daichi hard in the side. "And order your own food, moocher."

 

He raises his hand to gesture one of the waiters over, but Daichi pushes it back down.

 

"I’m fine, I ate at home," he says in response to Suga’s look.

 

"Hmm," Suga says, sliding his plate away. "Then you don’t get any more of mine."

 

Daichi laughs a little, but keeps his hands away from Suga’s plate this time.

 

"So, have you figured out what time you want to leave for the fight next weekend?" Daichi asks a second later, tapping his fingers in a steady rhythm against the countertop.

 

Suga watches a few more people filter into the diner, kicks his feet where his legs dangle off of the high stool he’s perched on.

 

"I’m thinking we can leave after lunch. It won’t take us more than an hour to get there," he answers thoughtfully, drawing nonsense patterns into the condensation of his chilled milkshake glass.

 

"Yeah, we can take my-," Daichi starts, but the shrill tune of a phone ringing suddenly cuts him off.

  
  
Suga watches Daichi tug his cellphone from one of his jean’s pockets, swiping his thumb over the slick, fluorescent screen to answer the call.

  
  
"Hey," Daichi starts, but he’s automatically interrupted by the voice on the other end of the line, low and serious, mumbled words that Suga can’t make out.

  
  
He knows enough though to guess who it is and what it’s about, has known Daichi for so long and so well that he can put the furrow in his brow and the tired sag to his face down to the late, sleepless nights at home whenever his dad stumbled through the front door, to the empty beer bottles scattered over the living room floor whenever Suga happened to stop by unannounced, to the screaming matches that had echoed up from the kitchen on the rare occasions that Suga had stayed the night as a child, back before he had been old enough to rent his own space to escape his own horrors.

  
  
Suga glances away, if only to offer a little privacy.

  
  
Even though Suga considers Daichi as a brother, Daichi also deserves to keep a little of his dignity, and Suga knows for a fact that Daichi hates for him to see him like this, with wounds that are so different from the physical ones Suga used to wear on his skin, but just as poisonous, just as dark and ugly and jagged.

  
  
Suga’s eye catches a flash of teal, of amber, outside one of the diner windows.

  
  
He eats another fry, listens to the bell above the diner door tinkle a few seconds later.

  
  
Daichi makes a short, quiet noise of agreement over the phone and then pulls it away from his ear, jabs his thumb against the bright red end call button.

  
  
"I have to go," he tells Suga, suddenly looks ten years older. Suga lays a gentle hand on Daichi’s arm, meets his eyes.

  
  
"I’m here," he says, the way he always has.

  
  
"I know," Daichi responds, the way he always will.

  
  
A brief, tired smile crosses Daichi’s handsome features, and there’s the brief touch of his fingers to the back of Suga’s hand.

  
  
And then he’s gone, slipping off of his stool and walking away.

  
  
Suga watches him go, and tries to fight the growing urge to run after him that blossoms in his stomach in bright, bright colors.

  
  
He knows it’s no use trying to follow.

  
  
Suga can never do anything but say those two words.

  
  
Gritting his teeth, Suga makes to turn back around.

  
  
Until a palm slams down onto the countertop to his right, an arm blocking his movement.

 

Suga barely flinches, just raises his gaze to the unfamiliar face hovering over his.

 

Chestnut hair curls effortlessly above a pale face, large, amber eyes, ink eyelashes that frame them, graceful cheekbones and a regal jawline, with the barest hint of a dusting of freckles, gold from the sun, over the bridge of an elegant nose, and full lips.

 

_"They’d probably make for a beautiful smile,"_ Suga thinks to himself, letting his gaze linger a beat longer than necessary.

 

But, currently, that mouth is curled, twisted, jerked up into a sneer, the boy’s pretty features made sharper, less forgiving, like black ice on a sidewalk in winter.

 

Suga blinks up at the stranger in front of him calmly, doesn’t bat an eyelash.

 

He’s used to this.

 

Used to being cornered on dark, empty streets, used to being called and harassed at two in the morning or finding nasty, venomous notes in his locker at school.

 

Street fighting didn’t always stay nice and collected within the ring.

 

Sometimes it bled out into Suga’s personal life - taking the shape of angry friends, angry brothers and sisters or fellow teammates.

 

And from the clean, pristine turquoise and ivory letter jacket this boy is wearing, Suga knows who exactly he’s here to defend.

 

"Can I help you?" Suga asks, not breaking eye contact.

 

He makes sure to lilt his voice as falsely sweet as possible, with too much saccharine and not enough sincerity, sugar on his tongue, the perfect smile, the perfect bat of his eyelashes.

 

It’s not hard to do, not when the sticky guilt over Daichi still coats his insides, black and invasive.

 

The boy’s sneer flattens out a little, matches what Suga knows is the sickly, honey-sweet smile he has plastered on his own face.

 

"That depends," the stranger from Aoba Johsai purrs, not moving one inch from bracketing Suga in, from looming over him.

 

"Oh?" Suga asks, playing along and cocking his head just so to the side.

 

Annoyance tingles up his spine, exhaustion and the ache in his ribs and the lingering sound of Daichi’s mother’s voice over the phone all combining to make Suga’s headache pound just a little harder, to make the flutter of anxiety in his hands tremble just a little stronger.

 

And now he has this, this pompous, prep-school asshole who just so happens to be the cherry on top to Suga’s shitty Saturday night.

 

Suga can feel the eyes of a few of the other diners on the two of them, wonders what this looks like, the both of them staring at each other, Suga’s jean-clad knees bumping against the other boy’s thighs, charm and razor-sharp smiles and bold-faced confidence practically oozing off the both of them. 

 

The boy’s smile widens, teeth flashing, eyes glittering.

 

"On whether or not you’re the one who fractured my best friend’s jaw," he hums, voice like velvet wrapped around needles, honey poured over shattered glass.

 

Suga can’t help it.

 

He smirks, lets the sweet smile on his lips turn into something more twisted, more sadistic, black lace and blood under fingernails and tipped with iron.

 

"You choose to fight, you deal with the consequences," he answers simply. It’s a go-to phrase.

 

Brief surprise flits over the stranger’s face, as if he had been expecting Suga to say something else. 

 

Maybe he had expected Suga to deny being guilty for cracking bone, but there’s no point in him doing that. It’s what he does for a living, what he does to hold on, to avoid following the same path his brother had taken.

 

The brief slip in the boy’s facade is short-lived, the dark glimmer in his eyes returning, something sharp no doubt resting on the tip of his tongue, as arrogance returns to his face, annoyance flittering over his face, bold and stark and what would normally be considered intimidating.

 

But all Suga feels is something fizzy and overwhelming bubble up in his chest, bordering on hysteria, bordering on fury.

 

It’s too late for this.

 

Suga is too _tired_ for this.

 

And yet, at the same time, it’s almost a welcome distraction.

 

There’s no denying the stranger is stunning in every sense of the word.

 

Long, long legs clad in tight-fitting denim that just _looks_ expensive, smooth, unblemished skin and long, elegant fingers, a collarbone that Suga wouldn’t mind sinking his teeth into and leaving pretty violet bruises over.

 

A face that Suga has no doubt has been the subject of countless whispered confessions behind the school bleachers.

 

Even if he’s an asshole, Suga could at least have some _fun_ while he’s here, add a little spark of something to his night.

 

Besides, he hasn’t even had the chance to finish his food yet.

 

Mind made up, Suga reaches over the boy’s arm that’s closest to the countertop, wraps his fingers around his milkshake and brings it to his mouth.

 

He pulls the straw between his lips, slow and purposeful.

  
  
He maintains steady eye contact even while the boy starts with a retort, the sharp words and their bite lost on Suga because he’s too busy following the delayed, but sure, downward flicker of the stranger’s eyes, his gaze dropping to Suga’s mouth, too busy watching and listening to the small but telltale stumble of the boy’s words, slight but still there.

  
  
A pleased curl of victory settles in Suga’s chest, purring low and soft.

  
  
Even though he knows he looks like shit, even though there are dark bags under his eyes that are definitely not designer and ugly red bruises freshly scattered along the pale expanse of his forearms, Suga knows he’s thrown the hook far enough out in the water to at least get the fish thinking about biting.

  
  
Suga flutters his eyelashes as he looks up, pulling his mouth from the straw, vanilla on his tongue, and tilts his head back just enough to meet the boy’s gaze a little more fully, just enough to bare the pale column of his throat.

  
  
No bruises litter his skin there.

  
  
The last time Suga had fought an opponent who had a sadistic taste for choking, the girl had gone home with a broken wrist.

  
  
He shakes the memory from his head, focuses more on the words he says next, working - although it’s not hard - to make his voice soft, a velvet suggestion.

  
  
"Why don’t you sit and let me finish my food, and then you can tell me how I can make it up to your friend?"

  
  
Suga casts a subtle glance down and then back up, adds, "Or to you."

  
  
If his intentions aren’t clear enough by his words, then he hopes the insinuation in his gaze more than makes up for it.

  
  
There’s a lot to admire the more Suga looks, and boy is he looking.

  
  
He keeps his milkshake on the countertop even as part of him wonders if it would be too much to take another pull from it, flash a bit of pink tongue in the process.

  
  
_"Probably too much,"_ his brain concludes.

  
  
Besides, the words seem to be enough bait because it’s there again, that brief flash of surprise over the stranger’s face that tells Suga that whatever he had been expecting Suga to say, it hadn’t been that.

  
  
It’s a good look on him.

  
  
And it’s replaced with a smirk that looks just as tantalizing.

  
  
Suga is going out on a limb here, doesn’t really know if he’s this guy’s preference or flavor, so to speak, but the wicked curve to that pink, full mouth is a small assurance.

  
  
"I’m not the one who’s nursing a fractured jaw," the boy purrs, but he removes his arms from their cage around Suga, slips to occupy Daichi’s abandoned seat, long legs tucked up to let his expensive-looking - and yet oddly mud-splattered - sneakers rest on the metal bar attached at the base.

  
  
Suga can’t help but feel the warmth of instant satisfaction, the adrenaline of instant gratification, a low hum under his skin.

 

It gives him confidence, like the buzz of alcohol sometimes gives him, a rush of heat and abandonment that leaves his thoughts cloudy, his worries less tangible, disappearing like the trickle of water through loose fingers.

 

The undeniable fact that this boy is gorgeous does nothing to hurt the situation; it just spurs Suga on, especially given the point that the boy is staying and doesn’t seem to be in much of a hurry to leave Suga’s side, or, worse, to give him a broken jaw like his friend’s.

 

Suga swivels his chair back around to fully face his food and the bar, props an elbow up like earlier to lean his cheek against curled fingers and fix the stranger with teasing eyes.

 

"And yet here you are," Suga says in response to the boy’s last comment. "I must’ve said something right."

 

The boy rakes dark chocolate eyes over Suga’s face, not bothering to hide the weight of his gaze, heavy and oddly calculating, a smirk dancing over that full mouth.

 

"Something like that," he murmurs, tapping his fingers over the plastic countertop. His lips curl up farther, chin tilted regally. "Or maybe I’m just hungry."

 

Suga hums, cocks his head just a little bit more, and peeks up at the boy through fanned, lowered eyelashes.

 

"I would suggest something," he muses, "but I get the feeling you like to make your own decisions."

 

Suga pauses a beat and then adds, "The big boy menus are over there," before the Aoba Johsai boy can speak, crooking one, pale finger towards the stack of glossy, food-stained menus farther down the bar.

 

The boy’s eyes flash in that direction and then back to Suga’s shit-eating grin and his eyes narrow briefly, irritation at Suga’s mocking tone flickering over his handsome face.

 

He replaces it quickly with saccharine innocence, leaning closer until Suga catches the faint scent of cologne off of his skin, sharp and spicy, Suga’s breath hitching in his throat unwillingly.

 

"But I have you right here," comes the response, satisfaction at what must have been Suga’s obvious reaction dripping from his voice. "And I’m very open to suggestions."

 

A thrill of excitement, of anticipation, runs up Suga’s spine.

 

This he can work with, this bold-faced self-assurance.

 

"I don’t give suggestions to strangers," Suga purrs, leaning to match his companion’s stance, fingers twitching at the heat that rolls off of him, that seeps through Suga’s thin t-shirt and makes him want to wind strong fingers in this boy’s hair and _pull_.

 

They’re not touching, but the proximity is close enough that Suga can imagine it, can imagine what the other would taste like on his tongue.

 

The boy’s gaze never leaves his, a dangerous, dark-tipped grin full of promises tipping his mouth up. 

 

Suga’s heart pounds in his ribcage, his stomach dipping low to accommodate that look, eyelashes fluttering to simper, pulling his mouth into an equally suggestive, sharp-tipped smirk.

 

"We can fix that," the boy says.

 

 

 

_"This is new,"_ Suga has enough time to think before his back hits a tiled wall, the heels of his sneakers catching up against the bottom of it as he stumbles backwards blindly, a hot, searching mouth on his.

 

He doesn’t usually hook up in diner bathrooms.

 

The squeak of his shoes against the grimy floor is drowned out by the deafening bang of the metal stall door banging closed as the boy from Aoba Johsai fumbles to close it without releasing Suga from the lip lock they’re in.

 

Suga hadn’t even really had the chance to see if the men’s bathroom of The Scruffy Cat had been empty before they had stumbled in.

 

The moment he had stepped through the door, there had been strong hands spinning him around, a tall, lean body pressed up against his, calloused fingers tilting his chin higher and an eager mouth meeting his as he arched up into it.

 

He had hissed in pain originally, his busted lip forgotten until the pressure had sent a sharp sting flaring across his mouth.

 

"Shit, sorry," the boy had been quick to say, the first words out of his mouth that Suga had found genuine. "Are you-"

 

"Fine," Suga had been quick to answer, leaning back up again. "I’ll be fine."

 

He had dealt with pain a lot worse than this.    

 

The largest stall had been thankfully empty at least, although Suga still silently apologizes to anyone unlucky enough to still be in the bathroom.

 

As the lock clicks into place behind them, and the boy shoves Suga harder up against the wall, panting against his mouth, Suga finally gets to do what he’s been dying to do ever since the pompous asshole showed up.

 

He reaches up with both hands, lets his fingers slip into chestnut curls, oddly soft despite what Suga had suspected would have to be a copious amount of hair product to style it the way it is, and tightens his grip.

 

The boy hums his approval against Suga’s lips, pushes closer still until Suga is sure he’s going to have imprints of the cheap tile facade against his back when this ends.

 

For a few minutes, there’s nothing but the slick, hot slide of making out. Suga’s senses are torn between the cool tile behind him and the warm body pressed completely down his front; between the pleasant sweetness of the boy’s cologne and the sharp, clinical scent of bleach; between the small sounds coming from his own mouth in between kisses and the pleased glint he catches in the stranger’s eyes every time their lips slip apart before coming back together.

 

The lights in the bathroom are fluorescent, stark and blinding, throw everything into crystal clear focus. When the two finally pull apart for more than a few seconds, breathing hard and flushed, Suga takes it all in for a brief moment.

 

He’s sandwiched between the graffitied wall and this boy, his hands still tangled in soft, soft hair, the stranger’s hands currently gripping at Suga’s hips, fingers pushing bruises into his skin.

 

It’s not the most aesthetic atmosphere for a hookup, a cracked and yellowed porcelain toilet to Suga’s right and sickeningly pink decor, the tiles of the walls alternating strawberry and licorice, but the boy from Aoba Johsai more than makes up for the view.

 

He’s flushed, beautifully so, pink dusted along the tops of his cheekbones, eyes dark and pupils blown wide, lips kiss-swollen.

 

That stupid letter jacket is slipping off of one shoulder, baring the sharp wing of a collarbone, the dark gray of the t-shirt underneath.

 

He looks like sin incarnated, funneled into prep-boy form, desire written in the slight part of his mouth, the pink tongue that slips out to lick at a small bite in his lower lip that Suga doesn’t remember leaving, and in the lowered, thick eyelashes that throw lines of ink over his striking face as he stares down at Suga, eyes raking over him with a hunger.

 

That look causes Suga’s heart to skip a beat.

 

But Suga stops him with a hand to his chest, untangling the fingers of one hand from the boy’s hair, as the other leans back in.

 

"Name," Suga demands, inwardly cringing at how breathless he is, how rough his voice sounds just from kissing.

 

"Oikawa Tooru," the boy supplies almost immediately, and Suga is at least pleased to discover that Oikawa’s voice is just as tremulous as his. "And who do I have the pleasure of being crammed into a toilet stall with?"

 

Suga snorts at the small joke.

 

"Sugawara Koushi," he answers, batting his eyelashes, fingers still curled against Oikawa’s chest but not really putting any effort into holding him at bay anymore. "And-"

 

But he doesn’t have time to finish what he had been about to say - hell, he doesn’t _remember_ what he had been going to say - before Oikawa slips one hand from its grip on Suga’s hip and tangles fingers into the front of Suga’s t-shirt, yanking him forward to crash their mouth together again.

 

Suga’s noise of surprise is lost against Oikawa’s lips, his thoughts lost in favor of letting his eyes flutter shut instead.

 

He may not know much about Oikawa apart from the way he kisses, but Suga is certain about one thing.

 

Oikawa Tooru is a tease.

 

He coaxes Suga’s mouth open slowly and methodically, runs heavy fingers down the front of Suga’s shirt with the hand that has no doubt left wrinkles in the collar, until they rest just above the waistband of Suga’s jeans, and lets them dip barely inside before disappearing, a fleeting touch.

 

Suga can feel his dick hardening with every kiss, sloppy and deep, heat building in his stomach, but when he tries to suck on Oikawa’s tongue in his mouth, all he gets is retreat and a sharp, teasing bite to his lower lip.

 

When he tries to get closer, tries to press their hips together, all he gets is firm hands keeping him in place and inches apart, and then Oikawa’s open mouth on his neck, sucking bruises to match the ones on the rest of his body.

 

Reading people is part of Suga’s job as a street fighter.

 

_"And somehow I’m having trouble reading this snooty, spoiled, rich kid,"_ Suga thinks hazily, letting himself sink into the pleasure, whimpering when Oikawa unexpectedly sinks teeth into the junction of his neck and shoulder and then licks over the spot to soothe the sting.

 

It doesn’t really matter. They’ll give each other hand jobs, maybe a blowjob, have some fun, some distraction for Suga to release the stress of the previous night, and then they’ll never talk again.

 

The second time Suga cants his hips forward, Oikawa meets him halfway, a hand sliding around to curl fingers around the curve of Suga’s ass and drag him forward, away from the wall, so they can grind against each other.

 

They both moan at that, the sound echoing off of the bathroom walls, but Suga is uncomfortable in his jeans, whines low in his throat and kisses Oikawa again, panting against that perfect, soft mouth, moving his arms to wrap around Oikawa’s slim torso and slip both hands into the back pockets of Oikawa’s designer jeans to do the same thing and tug him as close as he can.

 

Oikawa breaks away from the kiss.   

 

"Hold this up for me," he gasps out, tugging at Suga’s shirt and rucking it up until the hem of it is up by Suga’s mouth, cool air washing over the newly bared skin of his stomach and chest.

 

"I thought I was the one that was supposed to be giving suggestions," Suga manages to tease breathlessly before he chokes on his words as long, deft fingers unfasten the front of his jeans and yank the zipper down, Oikawa slipping his hand down the front of Suga’s pants without hesitation.

 

"Hmmm," Oikawa agrees, tipping forward to snag Suga’s earlobe between sharp teeth and a soft, hot tongue before he pulls away, smirking at Suga’s low moan. "But I like making my own decisions, remember?"

 

He pairs the words with a sudden press of the heel of his hand to the base of Suga’s cock, still trapped half-hard inside his boxer briefs.

 

Suga jerks, bites at his lower lip and traps the whimper in his throat, his head falling backwards to knock against the wall.

 

His skin is on fire, his dick aching already, and Oikawa’s barely touched him.

 

Oikawa smirks wider, Suga’s shirt still trapped between the fingers of his free hand until he coaxes it towards Suga’s mouth, the soft fabric brushing over Suga’s lips.

 

"Come on, sweetheart," Oikawa murmurs, eyes dark and glittering, pretty face flushed and the pet name slipping out so soft, so perfectly from his mouth. "Open up."

 

For a moment Suga is tempted to snap at Oikawa’s fingers instead, to bite and draw blood.

 

But the urge is fleeting and Suga finds himself parting his lips, letting the edge of his shirt rasp over them, smelling faintly of that cheap detergent he gets at the corner store, until the fabric is tucked between his teeth.

 

Like this, he’s muffled, his mouth full.

 

"Such a good boy," Oikawa drawls, honey dripping from his voice, approval so apparent in his tone, dark eyes holding so much pride and deep, heavy wanting that Suga can’t help how his toes curl inside his sneakers, can’t stop the white-hot flash of heat that shoots through the pit of his stomach and goes straight to his dick.

 

Of all the times that Suga has hooked up with someone, and this had to be the one moment when said person decided to use praise.

 

The worst part is that Oikawa notices immediately.

 

Suga can see it, something clicking in the other boy’s face before his eyes light up with understanding, ivory teeth flashing when he grins.

 

_"Fuck,"_ Suga thinks as the hand still down his pants pushes harder, Oikawa grinding the heel of his palm down a little more forcefully, the pressure turning Suga’s thoughts to static.

 

He groans around the fabric clenched between his teeth, digs his fingernails a little deeper into Oikawa’s scalp in a lame attempt at retaliation, shudders when all Oikawa does is close in again, lips brushing over his ear, voice low and hot and so close, words pouring from his mouth like water.

 

"You like that don’t you?" he purrs, voice like velvet, the hand that’s no longer preoccupied with holding Suga’s shirt up drifting to push Suga’s jeans farther down, slipping them over his hips and down his thighs.

 

_"Pretty impressive, doing that one-handed,"_ Suga’s brain supplies unhelpfully, his eyes squeezing shut as Oikawa continues to talk to him, running teasing fingers with his other hand over the outline of Suga’s cock.

 

"You love being told how good you are, how well you’re behaving, how perfect you look," Oikawa murmurs, breath hot.

 

Suga’s jeans hit the bathroom floor, pooling around his ankles. The air conditioning is on full blast, cool air breezing over the bare skin of his legs, but Suga is burning, Oikawa’s voice a drug in his veins.

 

"I bet you could get off just from that," Oikawa breathes, a trace of laughter in his voice, his hand drifting across the front of Suga’s boxers, now damp with pre-come, but not really touching. "I bet you could come with me just telling you how gorgeous you look right now, all flushed and desperate, how good of a boy you’re being, holding that up for me, how bad I want to jerk you off because I know you’d make the prettiest noises."

 

Suga shudders, tries not to mewl around the shirt in his mouth, hips jerking forward when Oikawa’s fingers press a little more firmly than before, promising to finally touch him, before they’re gone again, moving to trace patterns into the warm skin of Suga’s lower stomach instead, his thumbs pressing indents into the wings of Suga’s hipbones. 

 

Suga lets his eyes open blearily at that, glaring at Oikawa as the other leans back just a little, smirking, even though it’s obvious Suga’s fully hard now.

 

He looks so infuriatingly smug, eyes bright and amused, perfect hair mussed from Suga’s fingers.

 

Suga spits the t-shirt out of his mouth.

 

"Just touch me already," he growls, impatience finally winning out over his determination to not give in to the other boy’s words and teasing touches.

 

Oikawa’s grin turns megawatt.

 

"Whatever you want, princess," he says.

 

Before Suga can think much else, Oikawa is pushing his shirt up again with one hand to get it out of the way and spitting into his other palm.

 

Suga wants to wrinkle his nose at that, but they don’t have much in the way of options for lube and he’s too desperate to get off to really care.

 

Cool fingers slip under the elastic waistband of Suga’s boxer briefs.

 

Oikawa’s smirk is scorching against Suga’s lips when Suga crashes forward to kiss him, the wicked edges of his mouth catching the sharp inhale that Suga can’t help but give when long, spit-slick fingers wrap around his cock.

 

Everything else fades away, blurred around the edges, and crumbles away to make room for the haze of pleasure, Oikawa’s hand moving so, so perfectly around Suga’s dick, slow and measured, languid long strokes and pulls that leave Suga whining pathetically in his throat, fingers moving to scrabble at Oikawa’s shoulders.

 

The pressure and the heat are overwhelming, his hips rocking forward to meet the motions of Oikawa’s fingers. He doesn’t care if he sounds needy, doesn’t care if he’s being too loud for the small, grimy bathroom, even with the sounds he’s making muffled by Oikawa’s kisses.

 

All he cares about is this, here and now, working towards the tumble over that edge, fingernails digging into the thick wool of the Aoba Johsai varsity jacket, kissing Oikawa sloppily and mewling when the taller boy sucks hard on his tongue at the same time that he swipes his thumb over the head of Suga’s cock, squeezing the rest of his fingers a little tighter in their grip and twisting his wrist. 

 

Suga is gasping, can’t tell how much time has passed, but when Oikawa whispers, "You’re so good, Sugawara, so, so perfect, look at you, look at how pretty you are, how fucking gorgeous you look right now," when he sinks his teeth into the soft, delicate skin right behind Suga’s ear, the pressure that’s been building in the pit of Suga’s stomach reaches its peak, his toes curling in his sneakers, his hips stuttering as he thrusts desperately into the curl of Oikawa’s fingers, his orgasm hitting him in waves when he comes.

 

Suga buries his face into Oikawa’s shoulder, shaking, and lets the sensations flow over him. Oikawa strokes him through it, his touch soft and slow, almost overwhelming over Suga’s oversensitive skin.

 

Both of them are panting, and for a moment that’s the only sound - their harsh, ragged breathing filling the room. Suga’s head is pleasantly light as he shivers.

 

When he’s come down from his high, he realizes belatedly that Oikawa hasn’t gotten off yet, that he’s still very noticeably hard in his jeans, and a spark of mischief runs through him - a little burst of energy despite the immediate urge to curl up on the bathroom floor and nap.

 

Oikawa might know how to sweet-talk, might have somehow figured out Suga’s weakness in record time, but Suga knows how to do a few things himself.

 

He detaches himself from leaning against Oikawa’s firm chest, reaches down to tuck himself back into his boxers and pull his jeans up over his hips while Oikawa grabs some toilet paper to wipe off his hand, and then flips them in one swift move, which is a feat in itself given the crowded conditions.

 

"Wha-," Oikawa starts, startled, but Suga kisses him to get him to shut up, slips his tongue into his mouth and licks across the backs of his teeth, up over the ridges of the roof of his mouth, and swallows Oikawa’s answering moan.

 

As pleasurable as the hand job had been, it’s Suga’s turn to have some fun.

 

He breaks the kiss, peers up at Oikawa through feathered eyelashes, licking his lips.

 

"Can I blow you?" he asks softly, making sure to pitch his voice sweet, curling fingers into the front of Oikawa’s jacket and feeling a thrill of dark excitement when Oikawa visibly swallows, eyes going hazy.

 

Suga knows what he must look like right now, all large, doe-eyes and pink lips and cerise painted over his cheeks, that glazed, bleary look of being fucked out probably all over his face.

 

Oikawa nods, doesn’t really seem ready to form words, but when Suga palms him through his jeans boldly, the other lets his head fall back against the wall, mutters a silent, " _Fuck_ ," that has Suga smirking and fills his chest with the fizz of satisfaction.

 

He sinks to his knees carefully, the cold tile seeping through his jeans, wastes no time in unbuttoning Oikawa’s pants and sliding down the zipper to shove them down.

 

Suga’s thankful Oikawa’s wearing what looks like ordinary boxers - navy blue and soaked through the front - instead of some fancy, expensive brand he had been expecting, but that thought is brief and insignificant, his goal taking up all of his attention.

 

He decides to skip the foreplay, licking his lips and glancing up at Oikawa briefly as he curls fingers into the tops of his boxers to tug them down, Oikawa’s cock springing free of the fabric.

 

The other boy is watching him, lower lip caught between his teeth, silent for once and indescribably gorgeous as color floods his cheeks in anticipation. Suga can’t help but simper at him, fluttering his eyelashes and winking before he returns his attention to what’s in front of him.

 

Oikawa’s cock is leaking, hard and flushed as it curves up against his stomach, leaving a smear of pre-come against the front of his pristine varsity jacket.

 

_"Hold tight,"_ Suga thinks but doesn’t bother saying out loud, right before he takes Oikawa fully, easing him in, gagging when the tip of his dick hits the back of his throat.

 

Oikawa curses above him, loud and sharp, and Suga would snicker if his mouth and throat weren’t full.

 

Instead, he focuses on breathing through his nose, swallowing around Oikawa’s length as tears gather in the corners of his eyes.

 

"Fuck, _Suga_ ," Oikawa grits out, sounding strained, and Suga moans around the cock in his throat at his voice, deep and rough and all because of him.

 

When fingers brush through his hair, pushing his bangs back from his face, Suga hums his approval and peers up at the boy above him, and watches as the vibrations that run through his throat leave Oikawa panting and rocking forward.

 

Suga chokes, but doesn’t let Oikawa pull back, focuses on swallowing around him more fully, doesn’t bother wiping away the drool that dribbles from his spread lips and down his chin.

 

"Fuck," Oikawa keeps saying, and Suga can feel himself growing hard again from everything, from the noises Oikawa is making, the thrill of being on his knees on the hard floor and having a throbbing dick in his mouth, from Oikawa’s fingers running through his hair as he continues to deep throat him.

 

Oikawa looks so, so good above him, all bitten lips and dark, half-lidded eyes and messy hair falling over his forehead.

 

His voice is low and verging on wrecked and Suga can’t help but moan helplessly, more spit sliding down his chin, lips stretched tight, jaw beginning to ache.

 

There’s something about the fact that Oikawa is unable to speak, is only able to try to muffle his own noises with the hand that’s not keeping Suga’s bangs off of his face, that makes Suga’s blood race through his veins, that leaves him lightheaded.

 

He can’t help but slip a hand back into his jeans, still hanging unbuttoned, can’t keep from palming himself through the thin fabric of his boxers as he listens to the perfect little whines Oikawa is making.  

 

And when Oikawa comes moments later, shuddering and biting into the back of his hand to keep quiet, Suga doesn’t pull off until he’s swallowed every last bit of come, finally releasing Oikawa with a pop.

 

He still hasn’t managed to come, is still working himself over with a desperate hand, fingers now curled tightly around his dick as he kneels on the hard floor, panting, when Oikawa returns to some state of awareness and notices.

 

Suga can feel what a mess his face is, tears and spit combining disgustingly, his eyelashes sticking together wetly, but Oikawa doesn’t seem to care. He hauls him up with rough, desperate fingers and kisses him, teeth clacking, tongue swiping over every inch of Suga’s mouth, murmuring endless praise in between kisses.

 

"You’re amazing," he pants out, cradling Suga’s head in both hands, fingers combing through his hair, the strands slightly damp with sweat. "Absolutely amazing and gorgeous and _God_ -"

 

Suga’s head is spinning, the urge to come a second time starting to swell and crescendo, small little pants leaving his mouth, the taste of come still lingering on the back of his tongue. 

 

When Oikawa slips a thigh in between Suga’s legs, when he grips Suga’s hips with tight fingers and urges him forward to grind down against it, when he murmurs, "C’mon baby, come for me once more like the good boy you are," Suga tumbles headfirst into his second orgasm easily, and lets Oikawa mouth at his neck and nuzzle his nose under his chin as he trembles and moans softly.

 

When it’s all over, when the ringing in his ears has stopped and the two of them are breathing soft and slow against each other and his heart isn’t trying to pound out of his chest, Suga peels himself away from Oikawa, lets Oikawa’s arms fall from around him so the other can pull his boxers and pants back up.

 

Now that the high has edged off, the pleasure slowly seeping from his heavy limbs, Suga feels disgusting - his underwear sticky and gross, and his mouth stale.

 

His knees are wobbly as he gives Oikawa space to clean himself up, his throat already sore and God knows what it’ll feel like tomorrow morning.

 

But it was worth it. For now, at least, Suga is too tired to feel anything, too tired to let his thoughts linger on nightmares. 

 

Neither he nor Oikawa say anything as they finish neatening up as best they can given the circumstances, used toilet paper going into the toilet bowl to flush down before Suga pushes out of the stall.

 

He catches sight of his reflection in one of the mirrors on the opposite wall.

 

He’s still flushed, though it’s fading, a faint blush over his pale cheeks, strawberries and cream. His eyes still look damp from crying, lips kiss-pink and swollen. His hair is a sex-tousled mess around his face, catching the fluorescents and burning. And his t-shirt collar is stretched, wrinkled and loose from Oikawa’s tight grip earlier, baring a flash of smooth skin and sharp bone underneath.

 

His neck is littered with red bite marks and the faintest bloom of multiple developing bruises, and Suga feels the smallest twinge of embarrassment because he knows it’s going to be hard to cover all of those up.

 

He moves to splash cold water over his face from the sink, cleaning away dried spit and hopefully diminishing the color still dusted over the tops of his cheekbones.

 

It wakes him up a little, helps everything come back into focus as Oikawa holds the door to the bathroom open for him, eyes unreadable as they rest on Suga’s face for a brief moment.

 

It’s too late for there to be too many people still left in the diner, which Suga is somewhat grateful for because it means less knowing, judging, smug looks being thrown their way.

 

Oikawa is silent, but Suga doesn’t usually like to chat with one-time hookups. He’s content to drop money on the counter for his fries and milkshake, delicately grabbing the cherry he discarded earlier with a thumb and forefinger from the blood-red stained napkin it still rests on, and doesn’t wait to see what Oikawa is doing before escaping out into the muggy night air, the tinkle of the door bell a signal of returning to reality.

 

The pink neon lights of the diner throw everything within a five-foot radius into a candy glow, sinking into Suga’s nail beds, staining his skin with false color.

 

The moon is hidden behind clouds, far away and alone.

 

Suga takes a breath, can taste salt on his tongue in the air from the ocean, can feel it curling the tips of his hair, and he wants to sink down into the soft grass and close his eyes.

 

He knows he can’t.

 

It’s a long walk back to his tiny apartment from here, but Suga knows he can’t sleep here.

 

He takes one more inhale before moving to walk farther into the darkness, out of the cotton candy lights, and the bell above the diner door tinkles once more, followed by a, "Hey, wait."

 

Suga pauses, turns on his heel to catch sight of Oikawa hurrying down the few steps to the sidewalk below.

 

He feels a brief twinge of disappointment at the realization that he’s probably never going to cross paths with Oikawa again, or, if he does, never going to look at him twice, like he has with past acquaintances.

 

There’s no time in his schedule to date, and besides, Suga isn’t too keen on the idea of bringing someone he’d grow to care about into the tangled mess his life still is sometimes - no matter how hard he’s worked at breaking free of the webs of lies and violence.

 

But Oikawa is a vision. He may be from the other side of the tracks in his designer jeans and perfect smile, but nonetheless, he’s someone Suga wouldn’t mind seeing again if he could.

 

_"Maybe somewhere classier than in The Scruffy Cat’s bathroom,"_ Suga thinks wryly. _"But still."_

 

He tucks the maraschino cherry between his teeth, tugging it off the stem and chewing as Oikawa comes to a stuttering halt in front of him, artificial sugar and sticky red syrup coating the roof of his mouth, the tips of his fingers.

 

And he can’t help but stare longingly at Oikawa’s unmarred collarbones, realizing belatedly that he hadn’t gotten the chance to mark them like he’d wanted.

 

Oikawa opens his mouth, closes it, then laughs a little, almost as if he’s nervous. The hand that comes up to rub the back of his neck only furthers the suspicion.

 

Suga raises an eyebrow, swallows the cherry, twirls the stem between his fingers.

 

He can’t help the slight burn of curiosity that settles in the back of his throat.

 

"Umm," Oikawa finally says, eyes resting on Suga’s face and holding still, determination clear in them despite the hand that’s still curved around his nape, elbow propped in the air. "I know we kind of skipped a bunch of steps just now, but I wanted to ask you for your number."

 

_"I don’t give my number to strangers,"_ Suga should say. Or, _"I don’t give my number to anyone."_

 

Or blunt and to the point, just a simple no would serve its purpose.

 

"What do I get in return?" is what comes from his mouth instead, and Suga is too tired to be angry with himself for giving in so easily to dark brown eyes and a boyish grin and a hasty hand job in a bathroom stall.

 

He sticks the cherry stem into his mouth as he watches Oikawa register his words, a brief flash of surprise at Suga’s quick answer flittering over his expression.

 

That small hint of nerves disappears though, Oikawa’s hand dropping back down to his side, eyes narrowing as he takes a step closer to Suga, tiny smirk playing over his mouth.

 

Suga twists the cherry stem around with his tongue, flutters his eyelashes as he cranes his head back to meet Oikawa’s gaze, lets his fingertips brush the front of Oikawa’s jacket, drifting up to play with the zipper.

 

"I wanted to take you out for coffee, or to see a movie, to talk to you, get to know you," Oikawa admits lowly, just the barest brush of his fingers against Suga’s temple as he brushes silver hair back. That spark of mischief flares in his eyes, bright and sharp. "But I’m game for anything afterwards."

 

"Hmmm," Suga hums, grinning a little as he pulls the cherry stem from his mouth, the little red shoot now tied into a perfect knot.

 

He grabs the hand that’s still pushing his bangs back from his forehead with careful fingers, pulls it down between them and drops the stem right in the center of Oikawa’s palm.

 

He can still back out of this, can walk away with a coy look and a wink and disappear into the shadows without giving Oikawa an answer.

 

But a wave of recklessness washes over him at the look Oikawa is giving him, eyes flicking from the stem in his hand to Suga’s face.

 

"Meet me at the old arcade in two days, at midnight," he says on a whim, staring up at the other boy and feeling sleep begin to pull more firmly at his shirt sleeves. "And I _might_ give you my number." 

 

Oikawa’s mouth opens to say something, surprise flashing once more through his eyes, but Suga pulls away, waggles the fingers of his right hand in the air in a goodbye before he spins around and starts walking.

 

He doesn’t look back as he leaves the neon glow of the diner, and Oikawa, behind.

**Author's Note:**

> [this way to my blog](http://oisugasuga.tumblr.com/)


End file.
